


Ring of Fire

by DarkHeartInTheSky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Burning, M/M, Post-Episode: s14e14 Ouroboros, Self-Harm, Supernatural Dark Fic Bang 2019, Torture, ambiguous ending, in that it leads to the same finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 04:23:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20651153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkHeartInTheSky/pseuds/DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: Michael is free from the prison in Dean's mind. He is going to destroy this world once and for all.But first, he must see that this universe's Castiel is taken care of.





	Ring of Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the mods for hosting this bang, my wonderful artist Supernatastic101
> 
> I also need to thank my lovely beta reader, [Angelaland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelaland/pseuds/Angelaland) for supporting this project and fixing all my dumb little errors. Go check her out too! 
> 
> For more info on the "ambiguous ending" tag, check the end notes.
> 
> Please enjoy!

Michael stood, wearing Rowena’s body comfortably, smiling among the dead. 

“Hello, boys,” Michael said, grinning. Everyone looked down at Maggie, eyes hollow, body mangled and lifeless. 

None of them spoke. Castiel felt Jack beside him, anger radiating off him; prepared to rush forward into something stupid. He was a Winchester, after all, but Castiel would be damned if he let Jack get hurt. Castiel put his hand on Jack’s arm. He spoke without words, eyes doing all the talking:  _ No. _

Then, Michael snapped his fingers and they all fell to their knees. Castiel barely bit back a cry. It felt like fire had been poured into his veins. Every millimeter of skin hurt--a pain that went beyond bones and right into the very essence of his being. His grace screeched underneath his skin.

He could barely see Dean and Sam, their faces red with exertion and pain. Sam tried to reach for the gun at his hip, but he was in too much pain to even move. Even twitching the tips of their fingers was torturous. 

Michael chuckled. 

“You really thought you could keep me contained forever?” His voice was smooth and calm. It gave no indication of anger or malice. It would’ve been comforting, if he were anyone else. Wearing anyone else. Castiel didn’t know what he threatened Rowena with, but he would make sure Michael paid. “Foolish, foolish boys. Idiots!” 

Books flew off the shelves, landing in a messy pile over the bodies. Blood quickly stained the pages. 

“You will suffer for your arrogance.” Michael squeezed his fists and the pain intensified. Castiel didn’t know how it was possible, but it got  _ worse _ . His vision was blurry, but he could make out the shapes of Jack, Sam, Dean. His family. Curled on the floor in unbearable agony. Michael stepped towards them, grinning like a wolf. Rowena’s heels clicked on the concrete floors. Michael stopped in front of Dean.

“It’s a shame it didn’t work out, Dean,” Michael said, shaking his head. Castiel forced himself to his feet, unable to ignore the agony, but pushing through it anyway. He would not let his family get hurt. “You could’ve been the perfect vessel. If you’d been more cooperative. Haven’t you learned? You can’t escape destiny. You can run, but it’ll catch you eventually. Now, you and your family are going to see the beginning of the new world. And then you’ll die.” As he spoke, Castiel gnashed his teeth, tried to walk, stumbling. He fought through the pain. 

Castiel’s sword fell into his hand. He charged, ignoring Dean’s shout, and he managed to get Michael in the cheek before he was thrown back into the stone pillar, cracking it. Michael licked at the blood that trailed down his cheek; then, it glowed blue and stitched back up. His eyes darkened. 

“You’ve got some nerve,” he said, clenching his fists. Pain shot up through Castiel’s spine, paralyzing him. Sam and Dean cried out, hunched over themselves, faces turning purple. 

“I can make you  _ hurt _ ,” Michael growled, pumping his fists. The pain got  _ even worse. _ He’d been stabbed, shot at, blown up, torn apart, and nothing, none of it, came close to what he felt in that moment. Every cell inside his body was on fire. Michael stepped closer and Sam and Dean’s screams increased in volume. Their screams were worse than the pain Castiel felt. Sam and Dean were hurting right before him and he was  _ helpless _ . 

Jack was still immobilized, and he was angry. Face purple with rage, fingertips barely twitching as he tried to break free of Michael’s spell. His jaw was clenched with pain, but he did not scream. 

Castiel bit his tongue and crawled on the floor, fighting through the pain. Michael didn’t seem to notice until Castiel was at his feet. Michael rolled his eyes and flicked his wrist. Again, Castiel slammed into the wall, pain reverberating in his skull. Michael stepped forward. It was obvious Rowena wasn’t behind those movements. Rowena walked tall, with grace, like she was nearly dancing. Michael was all purpose. He knelt down in front of Castiel and wrapped his hand around Castiel’s neck. Rowena’s fingers weren’t thick enough to fill the circumference, but Michael had his strength and it hurt. Castiel was aware that all eyes were on him; despite their pain, Sam, Dean, and Jack were watching him, worried. 

“It’s a shame you’ve aligned yourselves with them,” Michael said. “A true pity. You could’ve joined me, Castiel. Together, we could’ve made Father’s vision come true.” He shook his head dramatically and sighed towards the ceiling. “But you’re a traitor. And you know what Heaven does to traitors.”

Castiel’s heart stopped in his chest. Michael looked at him knowingly and grinned. Castiel fought. He slashed with his sword, but Michael blocked it easily and then knocked it out of Castiel’s hands. It clattered onto the floor and Michael kicked it all the way across the room, past the bodies of the hunters from the other world. 

“I bet you don’t want them to see,” Michael said. Sam and Dean were looking at them, panic in their eyes. “Truth be told, I don’t like looking at them either. Consider this a mercy.” Michael snapped his fingers and the eyes of his family glazed over once more, blinded. They tried to scream--Castiel could see the muscles in their throats bulge, but no sound escaped. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Castiel said, and was quickly cut off as Michael slammed him against the ground, face first. 

“Oh, but I want to,” Michael said. The next moment, Castiel’s wings were ripped from the ethereal plane, hanging limply from his back. Michael made a disapproving noise and kicked at the offending limbs. “Despicable,” he said, shaking his head. “Look what you’ve done to them.”

It was true that Castiel’s wings were a sore sight. Hardly the symbol of a warrior of God. Years ago, back when he first took the plunge from Heaven, to fight against  _ his _ Michael,  _ his  _ Lucifer, the color changed overnight, from newly laid snow on a winter night to what they were now; soot black, matte. More time passed and they grew wearier and wearier. The feathers had lost their sheen a long time ago, now dull and dusty, frayed at the edges, and there were still large gaps where feathers had fallen out, or been lost in a fight, and never grew back. 

They hurt too. A constant ache he carried on his back. Most of the time, Castiel was able to ignore it; fight through it. But now, the wings were in his sight, splayed out in front of him. And Michael’s sword caught the light and flashed in his eyes.

“These don’t belong here,” Michael said, kneeling down. Castiel tried to scramble away, but Michael simply put his foot in the small of Castiel’s back and pinned him down. “You’re far from an angel, Castiel, but as long as you carry these wings, you have some claim to Heaven. That ends now.”

Then, without further preamble, Michael cut. 

It was only the knowledge that Sam and Dean and Jack were there, blind, immobile, but still alive, that made him hold back his true voice. It nearly escaped him, tearing at his throat, but the desire to keep his family safe was stronger than the pain. The blade cut through the skin and muscle easily, and then it was against the bone and grace. Blood sprayed out wildly, like out of a hose. Michael sawed to cut through the bone, through the marrow. 

The pain barely registered. It was drowned out by the panic and worry and fury; fury for the hunters from the other universe; the ones that had come to call the bunker their home. Worry for his family. Sam, Dean, Jack--out there in the War Room, helpless, breathless, blind. Nothing mattered but making sure they were okay. His mind blocked everything else out. The warm blood that soaked through his clothing didn’t matter. The raw, aching wounds didn’t even scratch the surface of his consciousness. All that mattered was getting away and helping his family. Protecting them.

But he was weak. Years of being cut off from Heaven sapped his powers. He was little more than human these days, and Michael. Michael was the King of Angels. Father’s First. It didn’t matter which universe he came from; Michael was the most powerful of all of them. Even if he was all juiced up, Castiel wouldn’t hope to stand a fighting chance.

Except, once he had. It killed him, but there had been a time he stood up to Michael; had managed to make a chink in his armor. 

Those days were long over, but Castiel still had to hold onto hope. His family needed him. Castiel couldn’t give up. So he fought, in the only way he could. 

Castiel struggled against Michael’s hold. He tried to pry the collar of his coat free from Michael’s grip, tried to grab onto the corners of walls and floor, tried to claw at Michael’s wrists and ankles, and it was all futile. A bloody trail followed them on the concrete floor. With each passing second, each failure at escape, Castiel struggled to ignore the pain in his back. His clothing rubbed against the raw open wounds, and it stuck against his skin with blood. 

He didn’t give up. He tried to dig his nails into the concrete, gnashed his teeth together until one cracked, and Michael still effortlessly pulled him across the floor. Castiel left deep gouge marks in the floor. 

“That’s it,” Michael said, his deep timbre coming through even with the resonance of Rowena’s voice. Castiel had to remember he was fighting for her too. Somehow, someway, she was part of their family too, and he would not let her suffer such a hellish fate as housing an archangel. Powerful witch or not, she wasn’t meant to be a vessel. She couldn’t contain him forever. “Keep squirming like a worm. In the end, that’s all you are. A pathetic, frightened worm.” 

Castiel bit his tongue and called forth his grace. It burned underneath his fingertips. He felt the glow come to his eyes. The lightbulbs above them shrieked, then popped, one by one. They showered shards of glass and sputtering sparks down on them. Embers landed in Castiel’s hair and smoked out as soon as they touched his skin. The temperature in the bunker rose noticeably. Castiel’s clothes stuck to his skin, glued with sweat and blood, tugging at his fresh wounds. 

Michael laughed, continuing to drag Castiel down the long hallway, effortlessly. “Is that all you’ve got? I want a fight,Castiel, not a child’s attempt at a dance. You’ll really have to do better than that.” Michael sighed dramatically as he kicked open the door. Panic clawed at the back of Castiel’s throat. His warrior instincts went off like sirens in his brain. He scrambled like a wounded cat, all limbs and desperation, howling with his true voice, trying to break free, twisting his spine in every possible direction. Michael’s grip was vise-like, choking Castiel. Castiel didn’t register the pain. He had to get away, get out,  _ get away.  _ There were a thousand fates he’d take over  _ that _ . He’d go back to the Empty instead of going  _ there.  _

Michael lifted him effortlessly off the ground. Like Castiel was nothing more than a ragdoll; and perhaps, that’s all he was. He certainly felt as pitiful as one. But he couldn’t give up. He refused to give up. Castiel went for the eyes, prepared to claw them out, but he had no time. In one fluid moment, Castiel was on his back, and then the next, darkness covered him. 

Except for the blood rushing in his ears, it was silent. He panted, and put his hands above him, only able to do so a few inches. Castiel kicked his feet and was met with resistance. His grace did not respond. With all his strength, Castiel punched the barricade above him and his hand ached. He beat it again. And again. One punch after another, until the bones in his hands were fractured and his knuckles were slick with blood and his breath would not stay in his lungs.

Castiel swallowed and he realized tears were stinging at his eyes. He felt like a coward, but terror was sinking into his bones. Into whatever sat at the core of his being, acting as his soul. Sam, Dean, and Jack were still out there with Michael. Michael was going to torture them, and kill them--slowly, painfully-- and there was nothing he could do to protect them. And he would still be trapped in this box. Forever. Never aging. Never dying of hunger or thirst or pain. His back still bled, but he would never bleed out. The world would fall apart around him and Michael would lay waste to this world just the same as he did to his own.

And he would still be in this box.

Castiel wept for his family and for his fate.

.

.

.

Jack regained consciousness slowly. He vaguely tasted blood in the back of his throat, and his vision began fuzzy. He blinked a few times and color and shapes restored, as did memory. He could see a streak of blood turning down the corridor; where Michael had taken Castiel.

Anger flared. Jack pushed himself to his feet. Sam and Dean were slowly coming to beside him. They were okay. Jack moved on.

“Michael!” His voice echoed down the hallway, a rush of wind moving forward. Glass cracked underneath his boots.

Michael stood in front of one of the storage rooms, smiling. 

“Boy, you still don’t get it, do you?” he said, sighing. “You sure did try your best, but it just wasn’t enough.”

Footsteps behind him. Sam and Dean were coming. 

“Where is Castiel?” Jack growled, eyes glowing. Michael scoffed. His hand glowed and he shot a powerful aura of grace. It caught Jack in the shoulder. Jack groaned, but stayed upright, rage fueling him. He knew what door Michael stood in front of. He knew what was behind it.

Jack brought forth his own energy. He touched his soul, deep within his bones, and channeled it through his fingertips until they were hot. He threw it at Michael. Michael stepped backwards and groaned. 

“You hurt my family!” Jack cried, bringing forth another ball of power. It was easier this time. He hurled it towards Michael again. Michael put his hands out and sent a shockwave towards Jack, but Jack knocked it back with ease. Michael visibly paled. “You hurt my friends!”

He felt Sam and Dean’s presence behind him, and it filled him with a fierce protectiveness. He had the power to protect them. He thought of the hunters from the other world. For nearly a year, he lived with them, worked with them. He saw their tenacity, their resourcefulness, their will to survive. Now they were all dead behind him. They left their universe just to be killed by the same monster they tried to escape.

Sam and Dean needed him. Castiel needed him. His friends from the other world were depending on him to finish this monster off, to avenge them. 

The rage consumed Jack. One after the other, he threw energy at Michael, and Michael was slow to dodge them. Michael looked scared. And pissed off. His hand glowed with power. 

“Burning off your soul?” he mocked, smile ticking upwards. “You’ll run out soon enough.”

Jack inhaled. “It’s worth the cost.”

Michael shook his head. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

“I feel the same.”

Michael growled. “I am the commander of the Host!” He shot an attack towards Jack. Jack caught it in his hands and it disintegrated. “The cleanser of worlds! I will not be challenged by a child!

“I am not a child! I am the son of Lucifer.” A hit. He stepped closer, backing Michael towards a wall. “I am a hunter!” Another hit. Michael gasped in pain, back pressed up against the brick. “I am a Winchester!” Jack put his hands to Michael’s temples and pulled at his own soul. It was even easier. It felt like grace. He looked Michael in the eyes and felt his own burning. He pulled Michael out of Rowena’s vessel. Michael fought him. Pulled and kicked. It didn’t matter. Jack was stronger. Jack was better. 

Michael was out. Rowena slumped to the floor. Jack focused all his energy on the blue cloud above him. His soul was fire, and with it, he burned Michael. The blue cloud turned into gray smoke, and within seconds, it was gone entirely, leaving nothing but a sliver of grace. It fell towards Jack and he swallowed it, feeling it fill the holes in his body he didn’t know he’d been carrying. The weight that had been deep in his stomach was gone. Warmth flooded his veins. Contentment. 

“Jack?” Sam said shakily. Jack smiled. He turned to face them, looking at his hands. 

“Michael’s dead. I’m me again.”

His wings were back. Jack stretched them and the aches he’d been holding vanished.

The room was very quiet. Dean and Sam stared at him, wide-eyed, mouths agape. Rowena groaned and held her head, forcing herself into a sitting position. Her face was pale and sweaty. Dean’s eyes darted in every direction.

“Where’s Cas?”

Jack looked at the door.

.

.

.

Dean was an idiot.

He was such a fucking  _ idiot. _

He clawed at his scalp, cursed, and gnawed on his lip.

“What are you waiting for?” Sam screamed. “Unlock it!”

“I can’t!” Dean snapped.

“What do you mean you can’t?” Sam pulled at one of the locks with all his strength. The veins in his biceps popped out against the skin. “Where are the keys?”

“There are no keys! There is no way to unlock it!”

“No fucking keys? Dean!”

“Shut up!”

“You built a box without a way to open it?”

“I was supposed to go in the box! Michael was supposed to go in the box! Did we really want him getting out? I wasn’t going to leave anything to chance!”

“So--so what? Cas is stuck there forever?”

“No! We’ll--we’ll figure something out! We’ll figure something out.” They had to figure something out. Dean had to force himself to exhale. He could feel his blood pressure skyrocketing, face flushing in rage and worry and embarrassment. He crafted that box with his own two hands. He etched in every sigil. He knew what it was meant to do to angels.

“Cas?” Sam said, putting his mouth near the lid. “Cas, we’re going to get you out, okay?”

“He can’t hear you.”

Sam shot him a puzzled look. 

“The sigils,” Dean said, swallowing a lump in his throat. “They’re supposed to block out an angel’s senses.”

“What does that mean?”   
  


“He’s basically blind and deaf in there! No, don’t say anything--look. This wasn’t--this wasn’t supposed to happen!”

“What the fuck are we going to do?”

“Everyone shut up!” Rowena screamed. 

The air felt like it had been sucked out of the room. Dean’s breath rattled in his lungs.

Rowena muttered something under her lips, and she pinched her nose. “Idiot boys,” she said, swaying on her feet. “It’s just a hunk of metal. Surely your brute force can crack it open?”

Dean couldn’t say anything. Beside him, Sam nodded. “I”ll get bolt cutters,” he said, and walked off towards the garage.

Dean looked over his shoulder and saw Jack leaning in the doorway.

“You doing okay, kid?” Jack looked different. Held himself differently. The shine in his eyes was very different compared to what it had been these last few weeks. He looked confident; celestial.

“I feel great,” he said, then frowned. “Well, I’d be better if Cas was okay.”

Dean forced a smile. “He will be,” he lied. Dean built that box with his own two hands. Crafted it to serve one single purpose: whatever got put in, stayed in. Rowena looked at Dean suspiciously, but Jack still just smiled, content with Dean’s answer.

Dean hated himself. 

.

.

.

Castiel’s back ached. Blood continued to seep through his clothing, pooling underneath him into a thick, warm gel. His mind felt fuzzy, far away. Thoughts were difficult to hold onto. His strength was depleted. There had to be something welded into the box; sigils or spells. His arms were heavy. Kicking at the lid above him was futile. 

He still tried. He fought through the pain, the weariness, and kicked and pounded, screaming. Hoping against hope that someone, anyone, would hear him. 

By now, his family was probably dead. Eviscerated by Michael. The world decimated. Castiel thought back to the conversation he had with Michael; it seemed like an eternity ago now. How every world was just a stage for Chuck to gawk at. When he was bored, he set it aflame and went on to the next one. Rinse, repeat.

Castiel didn’t want it to be true. It couldn’t be true. Chuck wasn’t cruel like that. He’d helped them before. He’d brought Castiel back from the dead, over and over again. Castiel once thought it was for penance, but after saving Chuck from Amara, after rescuing himself from the Empty, he’d come to believe it was because he was  _ meant _ to be here. Meant to guard Sam and Dean and Jack. Meant to protect them. Meant to aid them in their quest to protect the world.

Chuck had saved Castiel before. Surely he could save him now? 

“Chuck, God,  _ please _ ,” Castiel said, voice tight. “Help them. Help them! Help me!” His muscles were jelly, fingers and arms numb. He still punched at the lid above him, still encased in darkness. He had faced everything: archangels, demons, the princes of Hell. Lucifer, the Darkness. He’d been to Hell, Heaven, Purgatory, and the Empty; been to realms that had once only existed in stories. He couldn’t let a hunk of metal be the thing to best him. He  _ wouldn’t _ let a hunk of metal be the thing that stopped him from protecting his family. “Father!”

Castiel slammed his head back and exhaled. Gathered his thoughts together. Survival instincts flared in his brain, but he swallowed and focused on quieting his mind. Quelling the panic. First and foremost, he was a warrior. Crafted by God’s hands to be a soldier. 

He needed to assess his situation. Dean built this box and he built it well. Castiel couldn’t find a single flaw in the craftsmanship. Not a screw out of place. Not even a pin sized hole in the metal. Castiel would feel the sigils welded around him--all sides.  _ Contain _ , one said.  _ Dwindle _ , another--the one responsible for sapping his power.  _ Sons of God _ , another, burned right above Castiel’s head. If Castiel ever got out of here, and if, by some miracle, Dean was alive, Castiel would have to praise his grasp of Enochian. He certainly had improved over the years.

Dean was good. And determined.

And so was Castiel.

Castiel inhaled. He reached for what remained of his grace--a putrid, rotting thing, hardly recognizable as anything angelic, but his all the same. The Breath of God in his lungs. 

“Let me out!” 

.

.

.

The bolt cutters did nothing. Not even a chink. Dean wasn’t surprised, but he hadn’t been able to stop the seedling of hope anyway.

Sweat pooled at Sam’s brow, veins bulging in his biceps as he tried one more time. With a sick crack, the bolt cutters broke. The hinge snapped and they wobbled uselessly.

“Damn it!” Sam screamed, throwing the offending instrument to the ground. Sam kicked at the table the box rested on, then bit his lip, swallowing a scream of pain. He turned to Dean, afraid and unsure. 

Dean swallowed. “Okay, guys. Ideas. Come on, let’s hear ‘em. Anything.”

“Honestly,” Rowena said, panicked, “our best bet is probably to go back in time and stop you from building this bloody torture chamber in the first place!”

Dean winced like she’d struck him.

“I could try,” Jack said, walking up to the box. “I’ve, uh, got my mojo back now.”

And that was a freakout for another time. Dean looked at Jack and couldn’t see anything but Jack  _ eating _ Michael. Slurping up his grace like it was nothing more than a V8. Eyes glowing yellow--the yellow that haunted Dean’s childhood; a ghost still trailing him a over a decade after Azazel’s death. 

Jack stepped up to the box. Dean hoped it was still just a box and not a coffin. The still wet blood everywhere only led his thoughts down a dark road. Cas’s screams echoed in his head. The box was built to keep the prisoner alive. 

But what if Cas had died  _ before _ he’d been put in the box? 

Jack put his hand on the lid and looked up, eyes and hands glowing. Sam and Rowena shifted uncomfortably, backing up towards Dean. A low, rattling whine filled the air. It reminded Dean of when Cas had tried to first speak to him--his ‘true voice’. Static so high pitched, Dean’s brains nearly melted out his ear. The bunker rattled. Dust fell from the ceilings. The lights flickered, dimming and then brightening. The whine continued to crawl up in pitch until Dean couldn’t stand it anymore, covering his ears. Sam and Rowena did the same, curling over themselves, gritting their teeth together. 

“Jack!” Dean screamed over the tinny ringing. He couldn’t even hear his own voice. Were words even leaving his throat? “Jack, stop it!”

And then it ended. Over in an instant. Dean panted, chest aching. His ears ached. He looked to Sam and Rowena. Their faces were flushed, screwed up in discomfort. 

Jack looked sadly at the box, then at his hand, flexing his fingers. “I don’t understand,” Jack said. “I have my powers back. Why aren’t they working?” He looked at Dean, doe-eyed, childlike, so much confusion. Dean swallowed. 

“It was built to work against angels,” Dean explained, hating himself with each word that left his lips. “You included, I guess.”

Jack frowned angrily. “No. This doesn’t make sense. I’m stronger than any angel.”

“Jack,” Sam said, placatingly, “we need to find another way. There has to be some practical way to break this thing open.”

“Well, what is it?” Jack snapped, using a tone Dean had never heard from him before. It was fire and impatience. Bloodlust. Jack’s eyes slide back over to Dean, and Dean could hear the accusation. _You did this to Cas._ _You did this to my Dad._

Dean didn’t put Cas in the box, but he was the reason they couldn’t get Cas out. He built the box, made it available to anyone that knew how to use it. 

Michael. 

“There has to be something!” Sam said, but his voice stuttered. Bad move. Jack’s eyes darkened, looking at the broken bolt cutters on the floor. Jack flicked his wrist and the bolt cutters skidded across the floor, slamming into the far wall. Dean, Sam, and Rowena winced. 

“Look, boy,” Rowena said, “we’re all fond of Castiel. We want him out. But a temper tantrum is not going to break those locks.”

“And apparently, neither is the world’s greatest witch.”

Dean shared a concerned look with Sam. Something seemed off about Jack. He was usually weird no matter what, but he’d never been mean before. 

Jack looked between all three of them. “Well? What are the ideas, then?” He stared at Dean the longest, glare digging into Dean’s soul. Dean swallowed uncomfortably. It was almost like the way Cas stared at him--except, Cas looked at him with curiosity, sometimes sadness; like Dean was a puzzle he was putting together in his head.

Jack was pure angry. Justified anger. Righteous anger. 

“We can try and break the sigils,” Dean said. “I welded them in with holy fire. Holy fire ought to break them.”

“Dean,” Sam said, breathless, “we can’t do that. If any of that fire touches Cas, it’ll kill him!”

“Then we better be careful.”

Sam’s mouth audibly clicked shut. He straightened his back. Rowena stood beside him, staring at her feet. Jack continued to glare. Sam wore his thinking face for a long moment, then relaxed in concession. He rubbed at his jaw. 

“We need a game plan,” Sam said. “We can’t just come at the box with the fire. There has to be a way we can do this without hurting Cas.”

“What we need,” Dean said, “is to get him out of there as fast as possible.”

“I’m sure Cas would rather we went about this  _ carefully  _ instead of just coming at him without a plan! We don’t even know which way his head is!”

“Sam!”

His voice echoed throughout the small room. Dean swallowed. 

“You think I like this?’ Dean whispered, through clenched teeth. “You think I don’t know the risks? Trust me, Sam. I do. I’m not an idiot. But I also know that box, inside out, backwards, upside down. I know every screw, every bolt, every crack. This might be our only chance.”

Sam looked at him with doe-eyes. Dean sighed. “What if he was human? The fire wouldn’t kill him. It’d just be fire.”

The four of them looked at each other. 

“It might be our only choice,” Rowena said quietly. “We can deal with burns to a human. Humans have a surprising tenacity to survive incredible things. Angels, though? They can take a beating, but. . .”

Dean found himself with three pairs of eyes looking at him for guidance. Dean made his decision in those few precious seconds, hating himself with every fiber of his being. For what he was going to ask. For what he was going to do. For getting them all into this problem in the first place. Their lives were fucked; always forced into the same heinous cycles. Years ago, a great crime had been committed against Castiel. A crime that had occurred once before; one of violation, humiliation. And Dean needed it to be done again. He was no better than Metatron. No better than any of the other winged dicks that kicked Cas around.

But this was Cas’s only hope of getting out of that box. The box was to contain angels. If Cas was human. . .

Dean swallowed. He closed his eyes, aware that the others were waiting on him to make a call. People looked at him to be a leader. Even Cas. Dean didn’t want it. Didn’t want the responsibility, didn’t want their trust. He didn’t deserve it, and he was probably just gonna fuck it up like he fucked everything up.

He inhaled. Tried to forget about the eyes that were waiting for him to make a move. 

_ Cas,  _ he prayed, hoping that Cas could hear him. The box blocked out sounds. Would it block out prayers too? He wasn’t sure.  _ Cas, it’s Dean. Listen. I need you to cut out your grace.  _

. 

.

.

Castiel heard Dean in his bones. Dean’s voice, warmth, cadence. Dean was praying to him--and like always, Castiel was consumed in everything  _ Dean _ . 

It was jarring, at first.The silence breaking. It startled him into stillness, and overwhelmed, he missed what Dean said at first. 

Castiel swallowed. Such a small, subtle sound, deafening inside the vacuum. 

_ Cas _ .  _ We can get you out, but only if you cut out your grace _ . 

Castiel’s blood froze inside his veins. His hand came up to his throat, slowly, and he closed his eyes shut, remembering when Metatron first cut out his grace. It had been years ago now. He had his original grace back too. But it wasn’t what it used to be. It was withered and rubbled. Frayed. It used to be a supernova, and now it was a dimming lightbulb, barely flashing. 

But it was  _ his _ . 

Castiel could barely feel it underneath his skin; his vessel. His body. 

Metatron committed a violation when he cut Castiel’s grace out. A heinous, vicious act never 

done before.

What Dean was asking of him. . . 

Angels had cut out their own grace before. Anna had. 

But when Castiel thought of doing it to himself. . . the process. . . he was back in Naomi’s chair in Heaven. Immobile. Even just thinking about it sent Castiel back there. And he became immobile once more.

_ The box was meant for angels _ , Dean continued, then trailed off. Castiel understood, but only barely. Dean had a plan in mind. Dean was good at coming up with off the cuff plans, and they almost always worked. But what was it? Not for the first time, Castiel wished prayers worked two-way. Like a cell phone. 

_ It’ll hurt _ , Dean said.  _ But it’ll be quick. I promise _ . 

Dean was hiding from him his plan. Castiel could sense his uneasiness. And it was starting to become too much: the pain in his back, the terror in the back of his throat, Dean’s voice whispering mysteries to him. He decided in one second he’d do  _ anything _ to get out of the box. This was worse than death; worse than the Empty. To be stuck here, rotting forever? 

He hated his time as a human. Hated the hunger pains that always knotted in his stomach. Hated the cold that never seemed to seep out of his skin. Hated the aches deep in his bones that he couldn’t shake off or ignore. In all his millennia of living, those few months were some of the absolute worst of his existence. 

Castiel inhaled. The fear was still there. But he had reassurance. Dean was there, just outside, and he had a plan. Dean wouldn’t let the same things happen. 

Right?

Dean wouldn’t ask this of him unless there was no other choice. 

_ You’ve got to do it. Do it, then give us a sign.  _

His grace thrummed underneath his fingertips. Like it knew. The pain in his back barely registered as his mind was shrouded in fear and uncertainty. 

He didn’t have his blade. It was out in the war room, littered among the dead. Castiel felt at the skin of his throat. He could feel his grace right there, dancing under his fingertips. His nails scratched. He swallowed, closing his eyes. He had the strength to do it. . . and he wouldn’t have to cut deep. It was  _ right  _ there. Waiting anxiously. 

He made his decision. He couldn’t spend eternity here. He scratched. And scratched. And scratched. Blood pooling down his neck and chest. 

When Metatron cut out his grace, the shock had been so overpowering, he hadn’t felt any pain. This time, as Castiel put his fingernails to his own throat, the fear overshadowed it. The fear of being trapped here, forever, stuck in a waking death. 

The skin broke and his grace escaped, a thin tendril of light; barely enough to cut through the dark. Castiel looked at it. It moved like a drugged dancer, slow and clumsy, moving with no real direction. Definitely not the vitriolic bright it was meant to be. It was dimmer now than it had when Metatron stole it. It floated around, filling up the space of the box. Twirling, twirling, slower and slower and then—

Then it dimmed even further. And further. The blue turned to a muted gray. And then it turned to dust, fell on top of Castiel’s face.

Castiel swallowed, breath trapped in his lungs. A single tear slipped out his eye.

It was over. He had a human heartbeat now. Human breath. Human touch. Human pain.

He inhaled and it  _ hurt.  _ He beat on the lid three times. 

. 

.

.

Three beats. Three rhythmic beats. They all looked at each other. Disgust and fear shone in their eyes. 

Dean took the jug of holy oil and spilled it over the box. It sluiced down the sides and across the lid, dripping onto the floor in fat, heavy drops. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dean heard the screams. The thrashing. The smell of burning metal; burning flesh. Smells that brought back memories of Hell, where he did things, horrible things. Things similar to what he was doing now. Castiel screamed, and it was like Dean was back there, with the sulphur, the fire, the blood, the smoke and ash, but most of all, the screams: screams every waking second. Screams that never, ever ended, but continued on into hollow, pitiful cries. Screams that still echoed in Dean’s skull over ten years later, snaked into the sulcuses of his brain, routinely waking him up at odd hours of the night.

Back in Hell, people belonged there. Hell was packed full of the worst dredges humanity had to offer, and Dean belonged there with the murderers, thieves. But there were also the very worst. The rapists, the pedophiles, the sadists. Dean relished their screams because they belonged there. In Hell, everyone was the same.

This was different, though. The screams belonged to  _ Cas.  _ And Cas did not belong in a box, meant to draw out an angelic Hell. Cas did not deserve to suffer for Dean’s idiocy. His screams were grating in the worst way, causing Dean’s heart to slam against his ribcage, hard. Dean wondered if his ribs would crack with the force.

And still, he continued. He couldn’t stop now. He pressed the blow torch closer to the metal, watched silently as the oil caught fire and spread, a myriad of colors. The sigils slowly started to bleed shades of silver. Dean willed it to be faster, but nothing came of it. It continued to be an agonizingly slow process. Every now and then, Cas’s screams would hitch--what sounded like a sob. Dean pressed on. He was aware of the eyes digging into his back. Aware that Rowena, Jack, and Sam, could all hear what he was hearing. They saw what he was doing, without pause. Just continuing until the entire top of the box was on fire, the flames dancing and licking each other. 

Cas stopped thrashing underneath. Still. The screams dwindled into soft cries that only Dean could hear. 

The lines began to melt. Molten metal dripped off the lip, onto the concrete floor where it steamed, then cooled into a stain. The sigils rolled forward and one by one they broke; minute cracks in the lines, but that was all Dean needed. All Cas needed. Dean studied those sigils for weeks, then practiced for more, and then he meticulously drilled those lines into the metal, inches deep. 

One. 

Two. 

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

The last sigil broke and Dean breathed. He threw the flame thrower away, far away, where it skidded and clattered against the far wall. Sam cursed, and Dean ignored it, grabbing the fire extinguisher and whipping it around wildly, drowning the flames. 

From ignition to extingusiation, only forty seconds passed. To Dean, they felt like Hell seconds; where each one dragged on forever, like time had almost stopped completely. Stopped and dragged on; a single second lasting years. In Hell, time stopped, slowed, sped up. 

Forty years Dean spent in Hell. 

Those forty seconds of fire was like being there a second time.

The last of the fire snuffed out, smoke curling in thin tendrils towards the ceiling, like elongated fingertips, reaching upwards with its claws. 

  
  


Blood roared in Dean’s ears. He couldn’t hear anything; only aware that time started moving again when Jack shoved him out of the way. Dean stumbled, and only steadied when Sam caught his elbow, pulling him backwards. Sam’s mouth moved, but Dean couldn’t hear anything--Sam’s face was red the way it got when he was yelling. Rowena, too, seemed to be distressed, hair messy, dark circles under her eyes. 

_ I have to buy her a drink _ , Dean thought. Being possessed did something to you. Something Sam and Cas knew long before Dean learned. Rowena, too, was now part of their club. Their broken, busted, Elmer-glued together little family. 

_ Club of Horrible Decision Makers _ , Dean thought. He shook his head and swallowed. Watched. 

Jack put his hands on the lid of the box and looked up, eyes glowing the same shade of yellow that permeated Dean’s dreams, even all these years later. The glow was not isolated to just his eyes. It trailed down his veins, lighting them up beneath his skin like a human flashlight. His fingernails flashed; the color slid down into the cracks of the box, filling them up with bright gold. The box shook. It rattled on top of the table, violently. Like a victim of an earthquake. 

It continued. 

Dean reached for Sam, holding onto his elbow. Slowly, sound came back to him. He could hear how truly awful the sound of the box shaking was. Ear splitting. Behind it was a high-pitched whine Dean associated long ago with angels.

Then the box cracked. It split open and Dean breathed, unaware he’d been holding his breath. It was like he’d been drowning and finally broke the surface.

The lid slid off and shattered when it hit the concrete floor, shards flying in all directions. One knicked Dean’s ankle and it began to bleed.

“Cas?” Jack said, peering in. 

The box was silent. 

One.

Two.

Three.

“Jack?”

A red, raw, blistered hand slowly rose and brushed against Jack’s cheek, fingertips tracing along Jack’s jawline. Dean gagged, forcing himself to swallow down the acidic bile. The hand didn’t look like it belonged to a living, breathing person. Dean could see tendons; he could identify them: the flexor carpi ulnaris, the radialis. In some areas, bone peeked through, like little eyes in the back of the wall. White wrapped in charred meat.

Jack looked at Dean, eyes unreadable. Cas’s hand trembled. A high, breathy sound echoed from inside the box. Wheezing. 

“It’s okay, Dad,” Jack said to Cas. He touched Cas’s hand on his cheek, fingers curling, and the yellow light slide down Cas’s veins, disappearing inside the box. The box rattled and the yellow light cut through the metal, bleeding out the sides. 

“Cas?” Dean said, finding his voice. 

“He’s going to be okay,” Jack said, voice eerily calm. Eyes still yellow. Dean hated yellow. 

But slowly, Dean could see the hand on Jack’s cheek healing. What looked like a piece of raw hamburger turned into something more human looking. The skin grew back, patchy and transparent, but definitely better looking. Looking  _ human _ . 

Dean resisted the fiery urge under his skin to break out of Sam’s grip and rush forward, see inside. See what the rest of Cas looked like. He could conjure up the image in his head anyway, and because he was masochistic, he needed to know how similar his imagination was to reality. Burning was one of Alistair’s favorite methods, and Dean knew why. Burns  _ hurt _ . More than anything. More than getting shot, or stabbed, or breaking a bone. Burns went down beneath the flesh, underneath the nerves, inside the bone down to the marrow. Dean experienced it all; and in his eternity, his experience, above ground and below, he knew he would take any kind of torture over a burn. And because he was also a coward, he resisted. 

He knew what Cas looked like inside that box without having to see it for himself. He forced the idea away and just stood there, silent, while Jack did his thing, with his yellow eyes that still made Dean nauseous to look at.

The yellow wrapped around Cas’s arm in tight circles before dissolving, leaving behind soft, unmarred skin. The air vibrated with Jack’s power. Then, finally, after an eternity, Jack exhaled. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, they weren’t yellow. 

Dean exhaled too. 

Jack stuck his hand down into the box and pulled Castiel up. Cas’s face was pale and there were dark circles under his eyes,

“Cas?” Dean croaked. 

Cas looked at Dean, eyes unfocused. Then, he leaned over the edge of the box and vomited. 

.

.

.

It took a few minutes to get Cas on his feet. He was unsteady, and leaned most of his weight against Sam. Dean put a hand on Cas’s shoulder, unsure of what to do. Cas’s coat was soaked in blood and Dean had to suppress his own urge to vomit at the macabre memorial of Cas’s wings. The inside of the box was soaked in it too. Jack sat on the floor, leaning against the legs of the table, exhausted. 

Cas was alive. That was the most important part. He was alive, and anything else they would deal with as it came. It didn’t help dampen the intensity of the awkward silence; even Rowena was being uncharacteristically fussy over Cas, testing his pupils for a shocky reaction. 

“Fever?” Sam asked when Rowena put the back of her hand to Cas’s forehead. She shook her head. 

“Opposite, actually. He’s freezing.”

“Here,” Dean said, wrapping an arm around Cas’s neck. “I’ll get him warmed up.” He shared a look with Sam. Sam eventually nodded and helped arrange Cas around Dean, then he went to check on Jack. 

“You with us?” Dean asked, frowning. Rowena was right. Cas’s skin was ice cold, his lips just the barest hint of blue. He was shivering. Dean helped Cas step over the puddle of bile. Cas followed wordlessly; the fact that he wasn’t fighting Dean’s help was secretly terrifying. 

But Dean had to hide his worry. If Cas saw him panicking, he would panic. And since Dean was pretty sure Cas was currently in shock, that would be  _ bad _ .

“You good?” Dean asked Jack. Sam was by him, one hand on his shoulder. Jack smiled weakly and nodded. 

“Just give me a minute,” he murmured, eyes closing. 

“I’ve got him,” Sam said. “You’ve got your hands full.”

There was a look in Sam’s eyes. Something that screamed louder than words ever could. Dean swallowed, and he could feel a flush coming to his face. Rowena too stared at him with knowing eyes. 

Dean coughed. “C’mon, Cas.” 

He lead Cas to his room and sat him on the bed. Cas’s eyes floated around the room listlessly. Dean stood unsure for a moment, then helped Cas out of his coat, trying very, very hard not to look at the blood. It was an impossible task. The entire back of the coat was stained. No amount of OxyClean would salvage it. 

“I’ll get you a new one,” Dean said. 

Cas exhaled and leaned his head on Dean’s shoulder. Dean froze, clutching the coat in his hands. 

“Michael?” Cas whispered. 

“Uh, Jack took care of him. He’s not gonna be a problem anymore.”

Cas’s reaction was surprising--the news made him more distraught. He shook harder, nails scraping against the covers. 

“His soul,” Cas mourned. 

The thought hadn’t occurred to Dean. He’d been too busy handling the current crisis to remember the other crisis--the Jack-Soul one. Cas’s eyes were full of sorrow, glassy with unshed tears.The sight put Dean’s heart in a vise. Cas was distraught. Dean’s bones became heavy with sorrow. 

“It could still be there,” Dean said.

“Do you really believe that? Or are you just trying to make me feel better?”

Dean opened his mouth to answer, then stopped. His gaze wandered down to Cas’s hands. The skin was intact; the color healthy. But Dean could still see it reaching out of the box, a horror movie nightmare. Cas’s screams echoed in his head. Dean’s hand snaked downwards and he laced his fingers through Cas’s. He could just barely feel Cas’s heartbeat under his fingertips.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean said. “I never should have built that stupid box.”

“I’m not sad for myself,” Cas said, looking at Dean. “When Jack was sick--I meant it. I would’ve given up my grace for him. Being human for Jack doesn’t bother me. I’m glad Michael is gone. But was it worth the cost?”

“Jack could still have his soul. Maybe we can hope for the best?”

Cas snorted. “When has hope ever gotten us anything?”

Dean couldn’t help but chortle in response. “We’ve beat the odds before, right? Jack’s a good kid. His soul’s got to be there somewhere.” 

Cas twisted their intertwined hands. “I pray it is.”

“I’m glad you’re okay.” He’d take Cas in any form. Angel, human. Toad. As long as Cas was here, Dean could function. He remembered what it was like when Cas was dead; in the Empty. He’d been an emotional zombie. Just getting through the day, not really living. 

And then Jack saved Cas.

And now, Jack had saved Cas again. 

A charred, bloody hand reached out of the box, and the hand resting in Dean’s is healthy, human, with a heartbeat and warmth. Jack was capable of unimaginable destruction, but instead he chose to heal, to help. Dean didn’t know what it meant if Jack’s soul was gone. The combination of a soul and grace was what made him so powerful in the first place.

He remembered what Amara did to dozens of innocent people. Their souls. And the way people explained what it was like to live that way. Sam corroborated them. They  _ knew  _ the difference between right and wrong; there was just no desire to do  _ right _ . No conscience. No empathy. Not out of lack of desire. Just emptiness. 

Cas exhaled and turned to Dean and stared. His hand came up and brushed across Dean’s jaw. “I’m glad  _ you’re _ okay,” he whispered. 

“Never better.”

Cas scowled. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Dean said. “We always do. Shit hits the fan, arms get twisted and busted, we find a way. Jack. . . I promise. We’ll figure it out.”

They sat in uneasy silence. Time ticked on, and eventually--eventually--Cas leaned back against the pillows and turned on his side. Dean lay on his back, very conscious of Cas’s hand still in his, limp in sleep. This was a thing now. He took the leap of faith and landed here. 

Laying there, listening to Cas’s rhythmic breathing, he wondered why it took so long. Why it took them almost dying. Why it took them mutilating themselves. The world falling apart again and again. 

He wondered about all those alternate realities and the kind of life he lives in them. Is it always like this? Or did he just happen to get stuck in this particular one? Maybe there’s a world out there where he and Cas were never a question. A world where they grew up together. A world where their biggest worry is the color of curtains in their suburban home. Whose turn it is to do the dishes. 

Cas’s fingers twitched in his sleep.

Dean decided then, he would take this world--this crappy, dangerous, death-at-every-corner, monsters-under-the-bed world. He would take this world over the ones where he and Cas never meet. 

With that thought in his mind, Dean, too, eventually fell asleep. 

. 

. 

.

Castiel woke up. Dean’s stomach was pressed against his back, arms pinned in the space between. Slowly, Castiel scooted off the bed, wincing at the pain that devoured every inch of him. Dean’s face was smashed against the pillow, drooling. Castiel grabbed the blanket off the foot of the bed and draped it over Dean. He stood there and watched for a moment, becoming reacquainted with humanity. He shivered and coughed, and the movement only made his chest hurt worse.

Dean snored loudly, and Castiel couldn’t help but smile. But it didn’t help the nagging in the back of his head. The smile waned and Castiel turned and exited. The hallway was still littered with broken glass. Castiel’s throat burned with bile. He could feel Michael’s hand on his collar, dragging him down this hallway. The blood. The agony in his back—

“Cas?” 

Castiel flinched, panting. 

“Sam.”

Sam’s browns pinched in concern. “You okay?”

Castiel looked over his shoulder. There was a trail of blood that disappeared down the corner; little patches of feathers decorating it. 

“I—” Castiel started and the words decayed in his throat.He was drowning under the tsunami of emotions. 

Sam put his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “It’s all right. I get it.You want a coffee?”

“I wanted to see Jack,” Castiel said, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the evidence of his wings. He reached back and felt at his neck, fingertips just shy of where his shoulder blades ended.

“He went to bed, but it’s been a few hours.” Sam smiled softly. “A peek won’t hurt.” 

Castiel returned the smile. He moved past Sam towards Jack’s room.

“Hey, Cas?” 

Castiel looked over his shoulder. 

“I’m glad you’re okay.” Then he left, disappearing down the hallway.

Castiel stood outside Jack’s door, prepared to knock. But when he touched the door, it creaked open. Castiel peered inside.

Jack’s back was turned towards him, the snake in his hands. Jack’s eyes glowed and the snake turned to dust.

Castiel watched, and he didn’t know what to do. Horror coiled around his heart.

Hands sweaty, he quietly closed the door. 

**Author's Note:**

> Regarding the "ambiguous ending": the fic has a happish ending, I would say, but the conclusion will lead to the same events following up to the s14 finale.


End file.
